


and you sat, Sisyphus, on your rock

by trailsofpaper (Sanwall)



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Assassination, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Political Campaigns, Sex, Sexual Tension, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-07 19:42:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 15,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17372096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanwall/pseuds/trailsofpaper
Summary: Now I realized what makes our generation unique, what defines us apart from those who came before the hopeful winter of 1961, and those who came after the murderous spring of 1968. We are the first generation that learned from experience, in our innocent twenties, that things were not really getting better, that we shall not overcome. We felt, by the time we reached thirty, that we had already glimpsed the most compassionate leaders our nation could produce, and they had all been assassinated. And from this time forward, things would get worse: our best political leaders were part of memory now, not hope.The stone was at the bottom of the hill and we were all alone.- Jack Newfield,Robert Kennedy: A Memoir(1969).





	1. 13.

## June, 1968

* * *

“Tommy!” Lovett said, and just hearing his voice had Tommy raising his head as if on instinct. Seeing Lovett come toward him, weaving around hospital staff and looking rumpled but determined, released a tension in Tommy that he wouldn’t have expected - he felt like he’d never come unwound again, not with the coils utter hopelessness snaked around his insides since he’d heard the news. Some of it was the surprise at seeing Lovett here, now. Somehow, Tommy had imagined he’d never see him again.

“Tommy,” Lovett repeated and set a hand on Tommy’s shoulder where he sat slumped on the bench, an unprecedented touch of comfort that Tommy sagged into with extreme prejudice. “Tommy, don’t tell me you’ve been here the entire time- it’s been over twenty-four hours! And you look like it.”

“I just had to know,” Tommy said, and his voice was hoarse and breathless, lacking all weight. He snapped his mouth shut. Worse than the hopelessness was the feeling of weightlessness. He’d never been without direction in his life and he had no idea what to do. Lovett’s fingers dug into his shoulder, but Tommy felt numb.

“All right, well,” Lovett said, and that was his other hand on Tommy’s other shoulder. “Time to get up and move. Let’s get you somewhere else, some food and some sleep and maybe a bath. Wouldn’t that be novel? A bath, Tommy, you stink.”

A helpless chuckle welled out of Tommy as Lovett forced him to his feet.

“Yeah,” he said. He didn't know where his jacket was and his tie flapped loose, much like his thoughts. He figured it was best to just not let go of Lovett for a while.

* * *

“Favs is already making arrangements,” Lovett was saying as he maneuvered Tommy into a hotel room - Lovett’s hotel room, Tommy surmised by the knapsack that had had its contents spilled out over every nearby surface, the fully drawn curtains and bed that was a complete mess. “Tell you the truth, I think it’s the only thing he knows to do, poor man. He’s going to collapse the second he runs out of things to organize and speeches to write - I only hope Emily will get here in time to pick up the pieces.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said. It was all he could say, as a man who’d already collapsed without anyone or anything to pick up the pieces. He supposed he better count himself lucky that Lovett had thought to come by and scrape him off the proverbial sidewalk. “Wait, she’s coming here? He’s not going back east?”

“Eventually,” Lovett said. “But there’s some things to take care of here first- you know, he was just telling me he was beginning to like California.”

Tommy managed to huff a weak laugh. He appreciated it even if he knew none of Lovett’s jokes would land right - not after what had happened, and not with how Lovett had walked out. He felt immediately guilty for thinking about that, when a man, when the hope of a nation, was dead, and he turned away from Lovett to bury his face in his hands.

“He thought about this,” Tommy said, into his hands. “Bobby. He said that someday, people wouldn’t be able to talk about the Kennedy assassination without saying which one.”

The bed dipped beside him as Lovett sat down. The smell of him was comforting, but that too was a twist of guilt in Tommy’s stomach.

“He was always a little- macabre,” Lovett said and sighed. Tommy hated the past tense. “That’s why I liked him.”

“I don’t want to believe it,” Tommy said, and felt his throat close up. He swallowed and curled his fingers and leaned his chin on them to stare at nothing. He felt Lovett shift beside him and then he felt Lovett’s hand on his shoulder. It was meant to be comforting, Tommy knew, but it was uncharacteristic for Lovett and that made it strange.

Tommy stood up, too fast. His vision swam for a fraction of a second, but the room steadied soon enough. There was a french balcony, and Tommy threw the narrow set of doors open with too much force and said, “Do you have a cigarette?”

There was a moment of no reply, before Tommy heard Lovett shift on the bed and say, “Sure. Catch!”

He turned around just in time to catch the packet of cigarettes that Lovett threw at him. It was an underhanded throw, easy and slow, and still Tommy almost fumbled it, had to use both hands to catch it. He forced his fingers to be steady when he slipped one out and stuck it between his lips, and he started to go through his pockets for his lighter but without luck.

“I don’t have my lighter,” he said around the cigarette and, stupidly, he felt his eyes prickle. He didn’t even have his fucking lighter. He threw the packet on the bed and didn’t look to see if it landed.

“Here,” Lovett said and came to stand with him by the window and flicked his own lighter alive and lit the cigarette in Tommy’s mouth with a care that Tommy had seldom seen. He didn’t want to look at Lovett for too long anyway, how his brow and nose and cheeks were highlighted by the ambient light from the city and made him look pale and serious, so he looked down.

“Thanks,” Tommy mumbled before taking his first, bracing inhale of smoke. It was good to have something to do, even if it was something so insignificant as smoking. Lovett said nothing but pocketed the lighter and stayed where he was. Tommy was pathetically grateful for that too.

“You hungry?” Lovett said, when Tommy had smoked in silence for what was half an eternity. “We can order room service, probably.”

“I don’t think I could eat even if I wanted to,” Tommy said, smoke tickling his nose as it seeped out of his mouth. “But thank you.”

“Stop saying thank you,” Lovett muttered and turned back to the room, hands in his pockets. “This is all messed up.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said and turned too, leaning his back to the balcony rail. “You don’t have to humor me, Lovett.”

“Humor you?” Lovett said, and the biting tone was familiar, which was its own relief. “Tommy, I’m trying to make you feel better.”

“Well, don’t,” Tommy said and took a vicious drag of the cigarette. It was going to go out soon, if it didn’t burn his fingers first. “I don’t deserve it and besides, you shouldn’t have to- pretend to care for me.”

“God,” Lovett said and pulled his hands out of his pockets and startled Tommy out of his passive state by grabbing the front of his shirt. “You are so infuriating, Tommy Vietor, and I don’t know what to do with you.”

Tommy blinked as Lovett surged up on his toes to plant a kiss on his mouth. Despite himself, he melted into it and set his hand on Lovett’s back, wondering if he really had known Lovett for this long without knowing him at all.


	2. 1.

##  September, 1964

* * *

Tommy had always been good at blending in, becoming one of the group. He didn’t imagine it made him better than anyone else - just, perhaps, more eager to please than your average person- but it did make him attuned to people who didn’t blend in.

He supposed that was what made him sit up and take note when Jonathan Favreau strolled into the office one day and introduced his new assistant. Tommy picked up a pen to seem busy before he looked up from the newspaper clippings on his desk. He locked eyes with a man with curly, brown hair and a determined set to his mouth, standing half a step behind Tommy’s friend and colleague. 

“This is Jonathan Lovett,” Favreau said, smiling brightly in contrast to the person he was introducing, who’d looked away from Tommy as soon as their eyes had met. Tommy inexplicably wanted to slip his hands under his desk, like a schoolboy caught doing something wrong. “He’s going to be my assistant speechwriter.”

“Good first name, do you have a club or something?” someone from the other end of the office lobbed at Favreau, whose smile only grew brighter at the jab.

Tommy saw Jonathan Lovett’s mouth purse in distaste and said, only half kidding, “That’s great Favs, you need all the help you can get.”

Both Jonathans turned to Tommy then, Favreau to come up to his desk and Lovett to follow but keeping that half-step away.

“Lovett, this is Tommy,” Favreau said and clapped a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy deliberately steeled himself to keep steady and met Lovett’s eyes a second time. “This is the fellow to turn to if you need to know anything about foreign policy.”

“Oh, so can you explain to me how the United States escalated the conflict in Vietnam without a declaration of war from Congress?” Lovett said and put a hand on his slim, black tie, as if checking it was still there. Tommy felt like there was a challenge somewhere in his words, and he had a hard time finding some sort of footing.

“It was a joint resolution after the Gulf of Tonkin,” Tommy said and let go of the pen in his hand, lest he start tapping it nervously against the desk. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

Favreau’s attention was waylaid by one of Bobby’s aides sticking his head out the door to the senator’s office and calling for him, and he left Lovett by Tommy’s desk as he went. Lovett was still looking at Tommy, and the hairs on Tommy’s forearms were standing on end under the scrutiny. He resisted the instinct to fold down his shirtsleeves - Lovett didn’t seem the type to mind a relaxed work environment, not with hair that was shaggy enough to make him look like a beatnik - and Tommy crossed his arms instead as he leaned back in his chair.

“All right, calm down, I don’t hold you personally responsible,” Lovett said; he had a rapid-fire way of speaking, but his tone was light like this was his way of making small talk, of kidding around. The little twitch at the corner of his mouth strengthened the notion. “So, which one of the Kennedy cousins are you?”

“None of them,” Tommy said and felt a mortifying blush heat up his ears. “My name’s Vietor.”

Lovett raised his eyebrows and looked Tommy up and down, and Tommy just knew the blush was spreading to his face. “You’re kidding me. With that accent and your whole- well, I guess there’s a lot of your kind from Massachusetts, huh?”

“My kind,” Tommy repeated with a small laugh. “Yeah, I suppose there is. You’re from around here, then?”

“New York, yes,” Lovett said, and now it was his turn to cross his arms, but Tommy still thought he saw a hint of pride in the way Lovett tilted his chin up. “I think Favreau figured, if you’re gonna run for senator of the state, you might need some local help.”

“I’m sure Mr Kennedy will be glad to have you,” Tommy said, doing his best to smile encouragingly. Lovett didn’t smile back; he nodded, almost curtly, and Tommy couldn’t tell which of them was more relieved when Favreau stuck his head out the door and motioned for Lovett to come inside.

Tommy watched Lovett go, and took note of the fact that his shirt was about to come untucked in the back. He thought of reaching out and tucking the shirt back in and then realized he might have said something to Lovett instead, but by then the door was already swinging shut, and Tommy had missed his opportunity either way.


	3. 7.

##  January, 1968

* * *

“Either way, it’s getting too late for him to announce his candidacy!” Lovett said, color high on his cheeks. Lovett could work up a storm at a moment’s notice but the anger would usually dissipate just as fast, the clouds blown away by a grin or a self-deprecating joke, but this, this was something else. The two of them were the only ones left at the office, which was unusual too, and it sat uncomfortably somewhere at the back of Tommy’s mind. It felt as if the night was trying to creep inside through the windows. 

“But it’s not too late yet!” Tommy said, and tried to shake off the oddly charged atmosphere that was building between him and Lovett, owing only in part to the argument at hand. “Hell, it’s why we’re all here, isn’t it? To make a change.”

Lovett opened his mouth as if to deliver a retort, but something must’ve struck him because no sound escaped and he closed his mouth again. He was sitting on a desk, one foot barely brushing the carpet and the other up on the desktop, and normally Tommy would berate him for it.  _ That’s someone’s desk, Lovett.  _ But after what had happened at the office Christmas party, Tommy didn’t know where he stood with Lovett, what he was and wasn’t allowed to say.

Tommy’s eyes were burning with how tired he was, standing by the desk and looking at Lovett. But his conviction burned brighter, making it feel like persuading Lovett was the most important thing in the world. Like if Lovett was convinced, nothing could stop them.

“Maybe that’s why _ you’re  _ here,” Lovett said then, and Tommy blinked. “I’m here because it’s a job. All his talk about just being a good senator and not using it as a stepping stone, why should he throw that away?”

“Aw, don’t- I know you believe he can change things. And he wouldn’t be throwing anything away- he _ has  _ been a good senator!” Tommy said. Lovett was staring at him, and, as always, having Lovett’s undivided attention made heat creep up Tommy’s neck. He refused to budge and took a step closer. “He’ll be an even better president.”

Lovett flicked his eyes down and then back up to Tommy’s, and Tommy closed his hands into fists. Lovett’s body language was infuriatingly lax, one hand gripping the edge of the desk and the other perched on his raised knee. Tommy wanted to grab him and make him stand up straight, but he just exhaled loudly and added, “Don’t we have a responsibility to do all we can?”

“You even sound like him,” Lovett said and rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not saying we don’t have a- a responsibility, but I’m not sure running for president is the right way to take responsibility. Not against an incumbent. We’d just be stirring up shit, and for what?”

“I thought you hated LBJ even more than Bob does,” Tommy said lightly, relieved that he could fall back on that old horse for a moment, guide the argument back into familiar waters.

“Oh, Tommy,” Lovett said teasingly, rolling one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. Something in his tone made Tommy clench his jaw. “What does it matter what I think? You’ll follow Bobby to the ends of the earth no matter what.”

“And you won’t?” Tommy said, a feeble attempt at a retort. It seemed to do the trick though, because Lovett’s mouth flattened into a line before he said:

“They used to call Robert Kennedy the family’s attack dog, back when he worked for McCarthy. What does that make you, when you’ve been his fucking lapdog for just as long?”

Tommy didn’t know if he was going to say something that flat out escaped his mind or if his mouth just fell open. He gaped like a fish in any case, and Lovett heaved an irritated sigh.

“Sorry,” he said and slid off the desk, hefting up his pants before reaching for his discarded jacket. “That was uncalled for, I guess.  We both know Bobby Kennedy will do as he pleases and nothing else, so what good will it do for us to argue about it?”

“I just think- we’ll do better if you’re with us,” Tommy said at last, voice pathetically small, when Lovett was already reaching for the door. He looked back over his shoulder, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth even if it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere except home, because it’s too damn late. You coming?”

“I’ve got some things to finish up here,” Tommy said and pulled a hand across his eyes. “You’re the one who always tells me not to bring work home.”

Lovett’s grin quirked into something a shade more genuine and he tapped the door with his hand. “All right, well, I’ll see you in the morning then. Good night, Tommy.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said, unsure if his heart ought to sink or soar. It seemed lodged in his throat all the same. “Good night, Lovett.”


	4. 0.

##  November, 1963

* * *

Embarrassingly, the first thought through Tommy’s head after hearing that the president of the United States had been murdered in Dallas was,  _ who’s going to take care of the dogs? _

It was embarrassing because a man was dead and because he’d never been the one to particularly take care of the dogs either. He had a whole staff and family to take care of the dogs, and, oh God, the  _ family. _

Tommy hadn’t been working for Robert Kennedy for more than a year, and still he knew that this would devastate him. For all that it felt personal to Tommy, to have an icon, a symbol of hope, someone he’d looked up to, cut down like this, it actually  _ was  _ personal for him. Tommy would never forget the air of suppressed grief hanging like a cloud over the gathered staff in the office, making it hard to look each other in the eye.

He would never forget looking Bobby Kennedy in the eyes after, seeing the unending sadness in them and being completely unable to help. There was nothing Tommy could do or say that someone else hadn’t already done or said and none of it mattered anyway. In the grand scheme of things, Tommy didn’t make a difference, and Tommy felt horrendously selfish for being torn up about it when there were far more important things to worry about.

So Tommy put his head down and kept working on his report about the assassination of Ngô Đình Diệm and what it could mean for the conflict in Vietnam, now that Lyndon B. Johnson, who hadn’t been much involved in the matter, would have to take over responsibility. It was the right thing to do, Tommy figured.


	5. 8.

##  May, 1968

* * *

“I bet you’re just dying to tell me, _ I told you so,”  _ Lovett said, going up on his toes to be able to speak into Tommy’s ear. Tommy leaned down toward him, on instinct, and Lovett’s breath washed over his neck. They’d won the primary in Indiana, against all hope and reason, and Tommy was on cloud nine even if it was a bittersweet bookend to a campaign shadowed by the death of Martin Luther King.

He turned so Lovett would be able to hear him in the din of celebration, and their faces were very close to each other like this. He couldn’t help but take in details; the perfectly shaped divot of Lovett’s upper lip, the shadow of a dimple in his cheek, the fan of eyelashes when he blinked. Tommy touched the _ PT 109  _ tie clasp that Robert Kennedy had given him, like a talisman to ground himself, and said, “I would never.”

“You would, too!” Lovett insisted, and the light in the hotel bar was bad but Tommy could swear his eyes twinkled. “Tommy Vietor, hounding the press to spread the word -  _ ‘Kennedy’s running for president and he’s going to win!’” _

“Stop it,” Tommy laughed and tried to elbow Lovett - he didn’t use any force, so he ended up just grazing his side with his arm. He was too elated to want to do anything other than sweep anyone he could reach into a hug - he’d helped make it happen, and it made Tommy feel invincible, like nothing else could.

That was part of why he was brave enough to grin brightly at Lovett and reach over to clasp his shoulder. Lovett sagged theatrically under the weight of Tommy’s hand and Tommy kept smiling, and when Lovett handed him a drink, Tommy didn’t even hesitate. He threw his head back and downed the drink in one sweep - clear alcohol, some added flavor that escaped him, burning his tongue and tickling the back of his throat. Some of it spilled out the corner of his mouth, and  when Tommy set the glass down, he haphazardly wiped his sleeve across his lips and met Lovett’s gaze.

Lovett’s expression seemed somehow weighted, made something dip precariously in Tommy’s gut when they locked eyes. Tommy swallowed again and for an electric moment, it felt like everyone else melted away, leaving only him and Jon Lovett, looking at each other.

Someone jostled Tommy’s elbow and the moment snapped when Tommy looked away, but it kept prickling at his neck all night, an awareness of Lovett and of Lovett’s attention - when it was on him and when it wasn’t. Tommy had another drink, watched Lovett drink his own, and slowly but surely the reason they were celebrating fell to the back of Tommy’s mind, replaced with a fish hook of curiosity that kept tugging at him, pulling him toward Lovett.

The second time Lovett stretched up on his toes to speak into Tommy’s ear, Tommy turned so they were face to face, and he would never know whatever Lovett had wanted to say because Lovett’s gaze dropped unmistakably to Tommy’s mouth and Tommy was damned if he was going to let this moment slip him by.

He put his hand to Lovett’s elbow, carefully, lightly, an inconspicuous touch to any onlooker, not that anyone was looking at them in the cacophonous mayhem of celebration. But Tommy was close enough to see Lovett swallow before his eyes flicked back up.

He saw Lovett mouth his name, a question, and it took Tommy a second to tear his gaze from his lips to nod. Lovett looked down again, and touched his fingers to the back of Tommy’s hand. The touch sent a zip of lightning up Tommy’s nerves, and he followed Lovett through the throng out into the hall without a second thought.

“If anyone finds out, it’s your career. You know that, right?” Lovett said when they were alone in the elevator, the both of them keeping demurely to a corner of their own and only stealing glances at the other. The silence in here was deafening, underscored by the quiet whine of the the machinery.

“It’s yours too,” Tommy said, and his heart would’ve been heavy if it wasn’t hell-bent on jackhammering its way out of his chest. Lovett was restlessly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but he finally looked up at Tommy, properly, and met his eyes.

Tommy mostly kept other people's secrets, and he was good at it. He was allowed to keep one for himself. He reached out to grasp Lovett’s hand, and he managed to rub his thumb across the back of it for just a second and felt Lovett’s fingers squeeze his hand back before the elevator doors dinged open and they let go of each other.


	6. 3.

##  April, 1965

* * *

Normally, Tommy loved having the tedium of his job broken up by a party. Having won an election turned out to be as much work as being on a campaign, which, if Tommy had known during the countless sleepless nights on the road, he might not have given up quite so much in pursuit of victory. He’d rubbed his knuckles raw knocking on doors, he’d dangled his legs down the side of the open roof car Robert Kennedy rode through the streets and he’d lent him the shirt off his back when he’d shaken hands with so many that the cuffs had frayed to pieces.

Or at least he tried to tell himself he wouldn’t have given up as much, while he sipped his drink at Favreau’s engagement party, sitting on the couch and trying to appear as if listening intently to the conversation between the other people in the sitting group. A Carole King record was playing somewhere in the house, and Tommy had to continuously stop himself from tugging at his shirt collar. His mind was still buzzing with things he needed to do, like last-minute research on nuclear proliferation, and things he would have been better off not doing, like spending more time at the office than with his fiancée. He understood her decision to not move with him to Washington DC and to put an end to it, and he tried to leave it be. It wouldn’t do to keep poking at the bruise.

The man of the hour himself dropped down beside Tommy on the couch, having lost his tie and already unbuttoned his top shirt button during the course of the evening. He was flushed and seemed happy, which made Tommy smile when Favreau turned to look at him.

“Have you seen Lovett?” he said, and Tommy raised his eyebrows.

“Lovett? No. Should I have?”

Favreau shrugged and looked around absently, like perhaps he would appear out of thin air. He was flexing his left hand on his knee. “We invited him. He’s Emily’s friend, you know- that’s how I met her.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that,” Tommy said and idly smoothed out the fabric of his pants with the flat of his hand.

Favreau looked at him for a moment and then squeezed Tommy’s knee reassuringly.

“The right one will come along, just you wait,” he said, and Tommy startled. Favreau had an uncanny way of honing in on what was troubling you, and Tommy wanted nothing more than to avoid just that, so he quickly schooled his face into a smile.

“You know, seeing the two of you does give me hope,” he said, and Favreau flashed him a blinding grin before he looked over to where Emily stood surrounded by her friends, the bright colors of their dresses making up a whole rainbow. It was true, Jon and Emily made a lovely couple, but right now the notion rose up in Tommy’s throat like bile. He stood up, as casually as he could manage. “It’s hot in here, I gotta get some air.”

“Sure thing,” Favreau said as Tommy put down his glass and shouldered his way outside.

He heaved in a deep lungful of fresh spring air, relieved at how muffled the sounds from inside became when the balcony door swung shut. It was a spacious balcony, overseeing a nice neighborhood, and a figure was leaning on the rail to look out into the night.

Tommy recognized him before he turned around, by the curls on his head and the tilt of his hip, and Lovett blew out a cloud of smoke before he said, “All right, your company I’ll tolerate.”

“Much obliged,” Tommy said and moved to stand beside Lovett. “Favs is inside looking for you, you know.”

“He’ll survive for five more minutes without me,” Lovett said and flicked some ash over the rail. He was halfway down to the filter already. “Cigarette?”

“No thank you, I don’t smoke,” Tommy said and did his best to only look at him from the corner of his eye. Lovett scoffed as he stuck the cigarette back into his mouth before he crossed his arms on the rail.

“Come on, you gotta have at least one weakness.”

“I’m partial to a good whiskey,” Tommy said and leaned on the rail too, bending one leg like he was going to kneel but bracing himself with the other to keep upright. Lovett shook his head, blew some smoke out his nose and pinched the cigarette between two fingers.

“Of course you are. Something secret you can take out every once in a while to savor, is that it?”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” Tommy said and tried to pick out stars through the clouds. “I like having an excuse to take my time with something.”

When Lovett didn’t say anything, Tommy chanced a proper look at him. He was smiling faintly, a wry twist to his mouth that seemed more directed inward than anything else, and he was looking down at his crossed arms and the cigarette between his fingers.

“Well,” Lovett said at last and took one last, forceful drag of the cigarette before he crushed it  against the wall and flicked it over the rail, “you’re free to take your time out here if you want, or you can come back in with me and help me fend off everyone who wants to ask me when the hell _ I’m  _ getting married.”

Tommy groaned and straightened up. “Only if you’ll help me fend off the same.”

“Deal,” Lovett said, and when he smiled at Tommy, it seemed genuine. They went inside together.


	7. 9.

##  May, 1968

* * *

They went inside Tommy’s hotel room together. A hazy imagination and the longevity of his desire had imprinted on Tommy the notion that when this happened, it would be rushed; desperate and intense. But as soon as Tommy got Lovett under his hands, as soon as their suit jackets were discarded and Tommy set his hands on Lovett’s shoulders, any sense of urgency seemed to flee the room. The way he saw it was, it had taken Tommy years to get to know Lovett as a friend, so he’d spend years on this too if that was what it took.

Lovett didn’t push Tommy’s hands away, but he shifted back on his heels and looked to the side. He was smiling, but it seemed to Tommy it was a twitchy smile that would just as easily disappear as widen.

“Hey,” Tommy said and touched his thumb to Lovett’s cheek. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do here.”

“Don’t think I’m an expert either,” Lovett said and looked up at Tommy then. His eyes were wide, his gaze almost defiant, and Tommy became breathless with how much he wanted him.

“Do you think we’d better, I don’t know, kiss?” he said and curled his fingers into a loose fist on Lovett’s shoulder so he wouldn’t pull at him. Lovett made a sound and carefully pulled off Tommy’s tie clasp and set it on the dresser before he looked into his eyes.

“I don’t know, why don’t you come down here and do your worst,” he said and took a hold of Tommy’s tie with one hand and tentatively cupped his neck with the other. His palm was warm, and Tommy’s mouth was dry.

“My worst?” Tommy said, but Lovett was already pulling him into a kiss and Tommy was lost as soon as their lips touched, the entire world narrowing down to this one point of contact.

Lovett made a noise in the back of his throat, a pleased little sound that made something bloom hot inside Tommy. He opened his mouth, maybe to say something or maybe to kiss Lovett deeper, but Lovett parted his own lips and now it was Tommy’s turn to make a sound, a breathless, high whine that was muffled by Lovett’s tongue in his mouth.

The scent of cigarettes was hiding in Lovett’s clothes and his hair, but he tasted of alcohol and himself, and Tommy hunched his shoulders to get closer, to get more. Desire made his skin itch, like how he sometimes got when he’d been cooped up for too long and needed to go for a run. Lovett laughed softly when Tommy pawed at his tie and the buttons of his shirt, nudged at his face with his nose, slipped down to press a greedy kiss to where Lovett’s jaw met his recently exposed throat. The grain of stubble pricked at his lips, but Tommy just grazed his teeth against it, lightly, experimentally.

“Jesus Christ,” Lovett said, and his grip on Tommy’s tie tightened.

“I thought you were Jewish,” Tommy said, couldn’t stop himself, and that earned him another laugh, this time louder.

“Yeah, do you know what kind of trouble you have to be in, to call on somebody else’s god?” Lovett replied and deftly undid Tommy’s tie and slid it off, which felt like a reward. He then pulled on Tommy’s shirt, untucking it from his pants to start working on it from the bottom, and Tommy’s breath caught in his lungs. “Deep, deep trouble, Tommy. The _ wouldn’t go back if I could  _ kind of trouble. Please tell me you don’t want to go back either, because I, uh, wouldn’t know where to put my face if you did.”

While Lovett was talking, his fingers were finding their way up Tommy’s sides under the shirt and raking up goosebumps in their wake. Tommy would do anything to keep Lovett’s hands on him, and he thought he might as well tell him.

“Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away,” he said and grabbed Lovett by the waist and sat down heavily on the bed, pulling Lovett with him as much as he could. Lovett came to stand in between Tommy’s splayed legs, one hand on each shoulder and looking down at him, indulgently.

“I have to say, I’m a little surprised to find that you’re a sweet talker,” he said and caressed the outer shell of Tommy’s ear. The touch made Tommy shiver, and he closed his eyes and experimentally pressed his face to Lovett’s stomach, exposed by his open shirt. He felt the silk of his tie against his cheek and heard Lovett’s breath catch.

“Don’t know that I’d be any good at it,” he mumbled into the warm, soft skin of Lovett’s sternum. “But I’d tell you anything you want to hear.”

He felt Lovett push at his shoulders then, more forcefully than anything he’d done up to that point, and Tommy let Lovett shove him away. His open shirt slid off one shoulder as he sat back on the bed, bracing himself with both arms, and he looked up at Lovett searchingly. Lovett looked serious, eyebrows drawn, and though his mouth was red from kissing, it was pulled thin.

“I don’t want you to say anything you don’t mean,” Lovett said and crossed his arms, pushing his open shirt closed. “I don’t care- I don’t care if all you want is to get off because we won, but I don’t want any- I don’t want you to flatter me because you think that’s what I want to hear.”

Tommy was still mostly dressed, and he had never felt more naked in his life. He swallowed and looked down, at the brown carpet and at Lovett’s shoes in between his. He couldn’t bear to meet his scrutinizing glare.

“I mean it,” he said and curled his fingers around the bedspread. “I’m sorry but- I’d say anything to have you, Lovett.”

To Tommy’s surprise, he felt Lovett’s fingers on his chin, tilting his face up. He looked into Lovett’s eyes, still dark and serious, and Lovett said, “Anything?”

“Anything,” Tommy repeated, felt his pulse thrum in his throat, against Lovett’s knuckles. Lovett’s expression broke into a mischievous smile, and Tommy shifted on the bed.

“Well, that’s a start,” Lovett said and clambered into Tommy’s lap, setting one knee on each side of Tommy’s hips as they slotted together, and slid his fingers into his hair at the back of Tommy’s head. All of a sudden Tommy was drowning in him, and he set his hands on Lovett’s back under his shirt to anchor himself, and he angled his neck desperately to reach his mouth again.


	8. 4.

##  August, 1966

* * *

“Tommy, get up and walk with me and make it seem like whatever you’re telling me is incredibly important.”

Before Tommy could even react, Lovett had gripped him by the shirtsleeve and pulled him up from the kitchen table, and Tommy was frantically trying to comply with his request even though every intelligent thought had promptly left his head.

“I’m trying to write a report on the White House Conference on Civil Rights,” he said, because it was the truth. “I don’t know how it fell on my plate, but the transcript is murderously boring and I’ve been booking it for hours.”

“What’d I tell you about bringing work home?” Lovett said and walked to the foyer. There was a burst of noise from the living room, where the rest of their housemates seemed to have gathered.

“What’s going on?” Tommy said and looked to the living room - the door was open and he could just spot the couch and at least two pairs of legs on it.

“Nuh-uh, eyes on the prize, Vietor,” Lovett said, grabbed Tommy by the tie that he hadn’t had the sense to chuck off when he got home, and yanked. Tommy had loosened the tie enough that the pull was gentle, so he let himself be pulled, but he tried to adjust the knot while Lovett stuck his bare feet into a pair of shoes. Lovett always took his shoes off the moment he got home, which was more than you could say for the rest of them, the gaggle of bachelor Kennedy staffers that roomed together. Tommy, for instance, was still wearing his shoes.

“Come on, what’s the matter, Lovett?” Tommy tried again, but Lovett only shoved a hat in his hand and pulled him outside without putting on a hat himself.

“Sports,” Lovett said with a huff as they walked down the path to the street. “They’re listening to some sport on the radio and I can hear it all the way to my room and it’s driving me nuts! If they had spotted me they would’ve tried to make me join them.”

“Sports?” Tommy repeated mildly. He didn’t quite feel like putting on the hat, even if the evening sun was sure to blind him if it managed to find its way between the buildings. The breeze felt nice in his hair. “Aw, if I’d known, I would’ve joined them of my own free will.”

_ “Et tu, Brute?”  _ Lovett intoned dramatically. He was wearing a green pullover over his shirt and no tie, and he looked like he’d been cozy, maybe working from his bed, judging by the wild state of his brown curls. “No, I won’t let you. I need you to take me out and entertain me until it’s over and I can get some peace of mind.”

Tommy didn’t want to admit how pleased he was at being singled out by Lovett like this. For all that they’d grown close over time, Lovett tended to keep his coworkers at arm’s length and, unlike Tommy, had a lot of friends outside work. Friends that Tommy knew next to nothing about, and that made him feel like there was an entire facet of Lovett’s life that was hidden from him. It was a privilege to get to see this much, Lovett with the wind in his hair and his shirt untucked, talking animatedly about all the things that grieved him.

Summer was stifling in DC even as the sun descended, and the smell from the Potomac was ever present. “It’s a disgrace!” Lovett said, gesticulating so wide that he almost pushed Tommy off the sidewalk. “The river is so dirty that you have to rinse the water off before you use it!”

Soon, Tommy had stuffed his tie in his back pocket and was carrying his suit jacket over his arm. Lovett’s only concession was pushing his sleeves up to his elbows, but Tommy could see that sweat was making his forehead glisten and the curls at his ears and neck darken as they walked.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Tommy said and made to turn down a side street.

“Stop the presses,” Lovett said but followed him nonetheless, and Tommy led him across the National Mall and to the little frequented fountain just outside Library of Congress - Tommy wouldn’t have taken note of it if he hadn’t happened to jog by once, when his usual route around the Lincoln Memorial was waylaid by tourists, and he’d been in dire need of some water to splash over his head.

“All right,” Lovett said and inspected the assortment of bronze statues positioned above the basin - Greek figures, if Tommy was any judge. “What are we doing at the Library of Congress of all places?”

He turned to Tommy, who was already in the process of taking off his shoes and socks, and Tommy enjoyed the unguarded look of surprise on his face. “Cooling off,” he replied with a grin and rolled up the cuffs of his slacks before he stepped up on the edge of the basin. He flexed his toes to keep his balance and twisted his upper body to reach a hand out to Lovett. “You coming?”

Lovett shook his head, but he was grinning. He kicked off his shoes in quick order and haphazardly shoved his pants up to his knees before he reached up and grasped Tommy’s hand. There was a quick snap of electrical discharge when their skin touched, and Tommy wondered if this was the first time they’d actually touched palm to palm. They hadn’t shaken hands the first time they met.

Lovett didn’t seem to wonder about it, he just let go of Tommy’s hand when he was up on the ledge only to immediately grab Tommy’s arm for balance.

“All right, steady,” Tommy said and laughed when Lovett made a face.

“On three?” Lovett said and licked his lips, and Tommy wanted to grab his hand again. The water was no more than maybe a foot deep, and still it suddenly felt like he was about to take a huge leap.

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “One.”

“Two,” said Lovett and in unison they said,

“Three!”


	9. 10.

##  May, 1968

* * *

In between getting naked and kissing each other stupid, Tommy landed Lovett on his back in the bed, and he was torn two ways - he wanted to keep kissing Lovett forever, but he also wanted to know what kind of sounds Lovett would make if Tommy made him come.

So Tommy kept kissing Lovett, but moved from his pliant mouth to his throat and then to his soft belly. They'd groped each other enthusiastically and Lovett's slacks were already undone, but now Tommy hooked his finger in the lining and tugged. Lovett's breath hitched but Tommy only pressed a kiss to his hip. When Tommy looked up through his lashes, he found that Lovett had hefted himself up on his elbows, and a pleased little shiver ran down Tommy's back at being observed like this.

“You're not-” Lovett said, breathing heavily, “I mean you don't have to, this is, I mean, this would definitely be considered extracurricular activity, I don't expect you to-”

“I want to,” Tommy interrupted, and the truth lay hot in his stomach, making his mouth water. He tugged a little more, and set his teeth to the soft skin above the lining of Lovett’s underwear. Lovett breathed a curse and lifted his hips to let Tommy tug it all down and off, and finally Lovett was all naked and Tommy could set his hands on his hips and kiss his cock, just to see what it was like. It twitched, warm and smooth and hard against his lips, and Tommy could get used to having such obvious, visible feedback. He figured he'd be able to reverse engineer the process well enough, so he licked a wet strip along the side of it and took it in his mouth, carefully.

“Tommy, God,” Lovett groaned, and Tommy moved a little less carefully, feeling his face flush and his groin too. The reverent tone of Lovett's voice he'd very much like to hear again, so he tried using his tongue even if this didn't seem to be down to precision work, exactly.  Lovett’s fingers were in his hair, and Lovett’s palm against his head felt like encouragement.

Tommy hummed around Lovett, and that made him aware of how full his mouth was, of how Lovett's smell was thick in his nostrils. A shameful surge of desire made him press down into the bed between Lovett's legs, and his grip on his hips tightened. He made another noise and took Lovett deeper, as deep as he could. Tommy could taste him at the back of his throat, and his eyes prickled with the effort of suppressing his gag reflex, but it was worth it with how the sheets rustled as Lovett shifted, with how Lovett tightened his fingers in Tommy's hair.

“Tommy,” Lovett said, and it was less reverent and more desperate, voice nearly cracking on the name. “Tommy, I’m, Tommy, please, get up here.”

It was the please that did it. Tommy lifted his head regretfully and let Lovett sit up and hoist him up as well.

“You’re not even naked, God,” Lovett was saying and tugging insistently at Tommy’s pants.  _ “Get  _ naked, Tommy, this is ridiculous-”

Tommy laughed softly, marveling that he could laugh at a time like this, and helped Lovett help him take his pants off. They were too close to each other for Tommy to feel self-conscious but he gently pushed Lovett back down on the bed and kissed him on his jaw, chasing the closeness. Lovett muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse and trailed his hand down Tommy’s chest and stomach, so lightly it almost tickled. 

Tommy wondered if he would ever tire of touching Lovett in return, running his hands over the soft and solid form of him, alive and warm. Evidence pointed to no, and he dug his fingers into the meat of Lovett’s thigh and kissed him under his ear. Tommy loved the smell of him and greedily pushed his nose into his curls, mouth pressing lazily against his cheek. Lovett shuddered and bucked against him, and Tommy shifted to get his hand on him, still wet with spit.

The times Tommy had had sex, he’d tended to hide his face during the act; too aware, maybe, of how much he was telegraphing his needs and, surely, some of it just plain old embarrassment for himself. Even when he was alone sometimes, in his shower or in his bed, he buried his face in the crook of his arm as he came. 

Lovett, however, had no such reservations. He bent his knee and threw his head back, lips parted and eyebrows lowered, like he was concentrating. Tommy loved seeing him like this, and he realized with something resembling horror that he wanted to see him like this again, would possibly never want to stop seeing him like this, with a thin film of sweat making his skin shine and his throat working as he breathed in time with Tommy’s hand. Tommy ducked his head down and pressed his mouth to Lovett’s collarbone, because if Lovett wasn’t going to hide, Tommy had to.

When Lovett came, it was quiet - something Tommy wouldn’t have thought, if he’d let himself think about it, because Lovett was otherwise always noisy. He talked without pause between the two of them, and when they were out in groups he muttered witticisms that only Tommy could hear, and when he was exasperated he groaned, and when he ate something he liked he voiced his appreciation, loudly.

But this - this was just a tremor through his body, the hands on Tommy’s arms gripping him tight enough to leave marks, and Tommy thought  _ good.  _ Lovett breathed in, sharp, and then Tommy felt the pulse of wet heat against his palm and experienced a curious, animal need to just burrow down and into him.

Tommy swallowed and tried to sit back on his haunches, suddenly aware of just how naked and aroused he was. Lovett stopped him by hooking his arm around his neck, and his eyes were heavy-lidded and his cheeks were flushed. Tommy liked the way he looked a whole lot.

“Get back here,” Lovett demanded and reached for Tommy’s hand. Instead of taking it, he placed it on Tommy’s groin, and Tommy bit back a gasp. “We’re not finished.”


	10. 2.

##  October, 1964

* * *

With his hand cramping from furiously taking down notes and doing his best not to smudge the words while he wrote, left-handed as he was, Tommy knocked on the door to his boss to hand him the annotated draft of his talking points for the debate

“Thank you, Vietor,” Senator Kennedy said, with a warm, buck-toothed smile that had Tommy forget the ache in his hand enough that he thoughtlessly smeared graphite all over his shirt when he wiped his palm. Tommy wondered if the shine would ever wear off working for someone like Robert Kennedy and gave his dog a good scratch behind her long ears before he went to the break room to try to get the worst off with a wet paper towel. 

When he entered the breakroom he found Lovett hunched over a yellow legal pad at the table with a pen in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He had a wild look in his eyes when he lifted his head, and his hair was a mess. Tommy supposed he'd been running his hands through it endlessly, and a small sort of fondness made him want to reach out and smooth it down.

They weren't that sort of friends though, so Tommy just smiled at him and went over to the sink.

“You hanging in there, Lovett?” he said, to be friendly.

“No, I’m blowing off his closing statements,” Lovett said despairingly, and there he was pulling his hand through his hair and leaving it an even worse mess, pen resting between his index finger and long finger and no doubt leaving a stain somewhere. “I figured I'd write it ambiguous, so it'd work both in the case it goes bad and in case he knocks Keating out. Something something, carpetbagger Kennedy wipes the floor.”

Tommy laughed and tucked his tie in between his shirt buttons to get it out of the way. “Sounds good to me,” he said and then realized there were no paper towels to be found, so he decided his shirt was a lost cause. “What's the problem?”

“Problem?” Lovett repeated, pitching his voice high. “Who said there's a problem? Surely not Favreau, who told me there needs to be two different speeches for both eventualities. Favreau, who said ‘What's that, Lovett? An extended deadline for the literally double amount of work? Oh, don't be ridiculous, Lovett'. And he said I couldn't be near the typewriter with my coffee either, so I was banished here. That was one time, and really, not even my fault!”

“I have to say, you do a decent Jon Favreau impression,” Tommy said carefully and perched on the table to peer down on the papers.

“Thanks, I hope that's gonna make me land a job one of these days because I'm about to be fired from this one,” Lovett huffed and sat back, tugging at his open shirt collar. Tommy didn’t think he’d seen him in a tie since that first day. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“I solemnly swear I won’t drop the dime on you,” Tommy said and held up his hand like he was taking an oath. Lovett scoffed, but his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. He lifted the offending cup of coffee to his lips, swallowed a mouthful and grimaced.

“Ugh, that's gone to hell. Tommy, will you light me a cigarette? I'm afraid that if I let go of this pen I'll never be able to pick it up again.”

Tommy rolled his eyes at Lovett’s theatrics but nevertheless reached for the cigarette pack that had been strewn over the tabletop with the rest of Lovett’s writing accoutrements. Without thinking, Tommy slid one cigarette out and in between his lips to hold it there while he fumbled for the lighter in his pocket. He didn’t smoke himself but most of his friends and co-workers did, and Tommy liked to be helpful.

He became aware of Lovett watching him as he lit the cigarette, but Tommy didn't look at him until the handed it over. Lovett had his eyes fixed on the cigarette, looking like he needed it to live.

“Thanks,” he said and plucked it from Tommy's finger before he took a greedy drag of it. “You're a real stand-up guy, Tommy.”

Tommy couldn't put a name to the feeling that bubbled up inside him at Lovett’s words and he chalked it down to being pleased, but later he suspected it had something to do with how they'd touched lips by way of cigarette.


	11. 11.

##  May, 1968

* * *

Closing his own, slick hand around himself was a relief and a stimulation at the same time, and having Lovett’s hand around his own made Tommy’s arousal all the more urgent. He bucked down and Lovett tugged at his earlobe with his teeth before whispering, “Do you want me to blow you?”

“No,” Tommy gasped and bunched the sheets in his fist to keep his composure. He felt Lovett still against him, and he groaned but made his own hand still too.

“No?” Lovett said, softly but with a certain bite to the word. “Well, I’ve gotta say, that’s the first time someone’s blown _ me  _ and then rejected an offer of reciprocation.”

Tommy pushed down the irrational jealousy at other men getting to do that to Lovett, because that wasn’t what was important. What was important was that Lovett was here, now, still.

“No,” he repeated and touched Lovett’s face, cupped it desperately in his hand, balancing precariously on his elbow. “Jon, I want you- I want you here.”

Lovett pulled his lower lip in between his teeth, looking like he was deep in thought, and moved his other hand downward, over Tommy’s body. He grazed Tommy’s nipple with his thumb and a shiver wracked through Tommy at the touch; it was too much and not enough at the same time. Lovett’s fingers around his tightened, and Tommy had to gasp again. He quickly buried the sound in Lovett’s mouth, tried for a kiss but couldn’t quite make it, he was breathing so desperately.

“It’s all right,” Lovett murmured against his lips, running his hand up and down his flank while he helped Tommy stroke himself. “I’ve got you, Tommy, I’ve got you.”

Tommy let out a sound that was more of a sob than anything else, but Lovett just kept one hand on Tommy’s side even when he batted Tommy’s hand away and took a firmer grip, murmuring encouragement and reassurances all the while. Being reduced to reactions like this, breathing, trembling, moaning, was foreign to him, but Tommy pressed his face into Lovett’s neck and let it wash over him in a climax that left no room for thoughts.

When he came to afterward, his body was relaxed enough that he was probably crushing Lovett beneath him. Tommy tried to shift and apologize, but Lovett’s arm remained across his neck and kept him in place with a strength Tommy wasn’t quite prepared for.

“Lovett,” Tommy said into his neck and put his weight on his arms. “Lovett, we need to wash up.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of afterglow, Vietor?” Lovett replied gruffly, still sounding out of breath.

“Can’t say that I have, in this context,” Tommy said and smiled, couldn’t help it and didn’t even care that Lovett could tell. “That’s about drugs, isn’t it?”

Lovett sighed, heavily enough that it Tommy felt the exhalation across the top of his head. “What I’m saying is, we have all night to wash up.”

Tommy broke Lovett’s hold on his neck and pushed up on his arms to look down on him. He felt good, happy even, somewhere between relaxed and elated.  “We could wash up now and have all night to ourselves, uninterrupted.”

Lovett rolled his eyes, but his the corner of his mouth was twitching, like he was fighting a grin.

“Always planning ahead, aren’t you, Tommy?” he said and stroked his hand up Tommy’s arm, and Tommy’s heart thumped painfully when their eyes met.

“I try,” he said, with a bravado he didn’t feel, and rolled off the bed before Lovett could catch him again. He wiped himself off in the bathroom, feeling oddly detached, and carefully dampened another towel under the warm water that he brought back out. Lovett was sitting on the bed, gingerly, evidently taking care not to get any stains on the sheets, and looked up at Tommy with surprise when Tommy handed him the towel.

“Such excellent room service,” he joked, and Tommy cracked a grin. An oddly placed sense of modesty had Tommy turn away while Lovett washed himself, and he made a half-hearted attempt at picking up and separating their discarded clothes. The room was dark enough that it was mostly guesswork.

“All right, all right, get back here, you’re making me feel bad,” Lovett said, and Tommy gave up on the clothes and turned back to the bed. Lovett had pulled the covers over himself but was still sitting up, and he held the duvet up for him to crawl under. Something caught in Tommy’s throat, a feeling that he couldn’t name, and he slid tentatively in under the duvet and into Lovett’s arms.

Lovett didn’t let him think about it much; he arranged them efficiently so he had his head pillowed on Tommy’s shoulder and said, “I might kick you away while I sleep, don’t take it personally.”

“How am I supposed to not take that personally?” Tommy said and slid his leg along Lovett’s to tangle them together. “You’re kicking me!”

Lovett huffed a laugh. That unnameable feeling threatened to take over Tommy’s lungs and heart, and he was afraid that if he moved, something would burst. 

“Just go to sleep, Tommy, god.”


	12. 6.

##  December, 1967

* * *

The entire office and their significant others were spread out in the venue, making small talk and mustering up the requisite Christmas spirit among garlands and the occasional mistletoe hanging like Damocles’ sword above their heads. Tommy kept well away from them and had been deep in discussion about South America with Arthur Schlesinger, but when he’d excused himself, Tommy had been left standing by a garishly decorated Christmas tree and without the energy to enter another discussion.

Earlier in the night, everyone’s children had been there too, and Tommy had almost tripped over one of Robert Kennedy’s daughters and offered her a piggyback ride back to her siblings as an apology, which she had delightedly accepted. They’d been sent home by now, leaving the adults to dip deeper and deeper into the eggnog, and Tommy thought it was high time for a refill. He didn’t want to get hosed, necessarily, he just wanted to have something to do with his hands.

Tommy found his way through the crowd to the drinks table and was trying to empty his glass when he heard Favreau’s voice. “It’s Christmas, Lovett, you have to cheer up!”

“I have to do no such thing, I’m Jewish!” Lovett replied, and Tommy promptly choked on the last drops of eggnog.

He bent over with suppressed laughter, and he was obvious enough that Favreau looked over and asked, “You okay there, Tommy?”

“Just fine, thank you,” Tommy said hoarsely and looked up at them. Favreau had a concerned little line in between his eyebrows, but Lovett was wearing a faintly smug look, which told Tommy that he realized he’d made Tommy laugh. Emily, who was on Favreau’s arm, smiled at him.

“More eggnog?” she asked and held up the decanter. Tommy nodded and gratefully held out his glass. 

Lovett clinked his own glass to Tommy’s in a toast when he’d had his fill and said, “ _ More _ eggnog? What’s this, a vice, from our own Tommy Vietor?”

“Oh, quit it,” Tommy said, fondly. His ears and cheeks were already red from the alcohol, but he couldn’t deny that Lovett’s words made him feel pleased, the informal and friendly intimacy somehow still novel to him. “Can’t a guy have some eggnog before he’s branded a paragon of bad habits?”

“I think that’s an oxymoron,” Favreau said. He was looking from Lovett to Tommy and back again with a happy expression Tommy couldn’t quite place. Like a sheepdog having succeeded in bringing the herd together. “You can’t be a paragon of something bad, can you?”

“Sure you can,” Lovett said and tilted his glass toward Tommy with a risk of spilling its contents. “Look at Thomas here. A paragon, if I ever saw one, of every damn virtue in existence, and it makes the rest of us look bad.”

This made Tommy feel a shade less good about Lovett’s jovial tone. “I don’t think I’m all that,” he said and looked at Lovett, who was smiling but seemed to Tommy like he was hiding something behind that smile. “You look plenty good on your own.”

He didn’t mean for it to happen, but as he said it he looked Lovett up and down, took in the brown slacks and gray sweater that draped his solid form and the shirt collar that wasn’t so neatly folded, and when he looked Lovett in the eyes again the smile had fallen away completely and given way to something calculating in Lovett’s gaze. It made Tommy gulp down a breath of air.

“Well, that’s the last of that,” Emily said after topping both Lovett, Favreau and herself off with the eggnog. “I’ll go ask if there’s more in the kitchen.”

“I’ll come with you,” Favreau said, apparently still loath to part from his wife for more than five seconds at a time. It was heartwarming, but Lovett still made a face after them that had Tommy grin into his glass.

“You better watch out,” Lovett said and indicated something above Tommy’s head with a tilt of his head. “If you stand there for much longer, the ladies here will think you’re hopeful and seize the opportunity.”

Tommy looked up and caught sight of a mistletoe tied to one of the beams in the roof with a cheerful red bow. He wasn’t standing directly underneath it, but close enough that you could make the argument, and he very carefully took a step away from it, closer to Lovett.

“Oh, so not hopeful then?” Lovett said and lowered his lashes as he regarded Tommy. Tommy shifted his grip on the glass, pressed it up against his chest as some form of protection.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Tommy said. “I just don’t think I’m a, uh, an opportunity.”

“You’re kidding me,” Lovett said and again clinked his glass against Tommy’s, still pressed against his chest. “You’re tall, handsome, you make a good living working for a United States senator, and you have that look of clean-cut sincerity about you that makes you absolutely irresistible.”

“Is that so?” Tommy said, but the words came out more shaky than he’d intended, maybe because Lovett’s knuckles were still resting against his wrist, like he’d forgotten his hand there after the toast.

“Yeah,” Lovett said and looked up at him, and for once there wasn’t any hint of either mockery or humour in his voice. “Makes you want to see what it’d take to ruffle Tommy Vietor’s feathers.”

Tommy could see it, all too clearly. All it would take to ruffle his feathers, as Lovett put it, was for Lovett to set the glass down and grab Tommy instead. Tommy would fold like a cheap suit under his hands, do whatever he wanted and consequences be damned.  _ The mistletoe,  _ he would say. _ It’s a mistletoe, and those are the rules, aren’t they? You kiss underneath it. _

But it wasn’t the mistletoe. That was just the excuse, and Tommy knew it. He wanted to kiss Lovett so badly he could taste it, and no amount of eggnog, spiked or no, would wash that out. With his heart in his throat, Tommy shifted back just enough for Lovett’s hand to slide off his wrist. Lovett retracted his hand like he’d been burnt and Tommy swallowed

“Do you think Emily and Favs need some help with that eggnog?” he said and looked away from Lovett to look above the heads of the crowd.

“They’re fully grown adults, it’d be a sad day if they can’t manage to get some more refreshments between the two of them,” Lovett said, and he sounded just as sharp as he usually did, the tone so jarringly normal for him that for a second, Tommy wondered if he’d imagined the moment between them.

But when he looked back at Lovett, he could see that something had closed behind his eyes, his expression to carefully neutral that it had to be a construction. A door had been shut, and Tommy exhaled. That was for the best, wasn’t it? He downed his eggnog, grimaced at the too-sweet taste, and wondered if he could get some of the alcohol without the damn egg.


	13. 12.

##  May, 1968

* * *

Waking up tended to be an abrupt affair for Tommy, but not so this time. He blinked himself into wakefulness slowly, piecing his surroundings together bit by bit. The dawning light filtering in through shut curtains, the taste of morning breath in his mouth, the warm weight of Lovett still half-draped across him. Lovett hadn’t kicked him all night.

“Mmph,” Tommy said into his hair and gingerly touched his naked shoulder. Tommy’s entire arm had fallen asleep under him. “Lovett, I have to get up.”

“No,” Lovett mumbled, voice gravelly and thick with sleep, and the hand on Tommy’s chest curled slightly.

“Yes,” Tommy said, even though it cost him. The campaign wasn’t going to wait for him. “There’s a flight to catch.”

With that, Lovett finally stirred enough for Tommy to pull his arm out, sit up and start flexing his fingers to get some blood flowing. But Lovett only turned on his stomach and burrowed deeper into the pillow that Tommy had now vacated, and Tommy felt a fondness well up inside him that threatened to choke him.

Tommy swallowed and nudged Lovett with his elbow. “If you’re not getting up, then I’m going to go,” he said, and, thinking out loud, he continued, “There’s so much to do.” Lovett said nothing, so Tommy got up and walked into the bathroom by himself.

By the time he’d toweled himself off after his quick shower and walked back out into the hotel room proper, Lovett was already pulling on his clothes with a frantic edge to his movements.

“I have to pack all my shit, why did you let me sleep for so long?”

“Me?” Tommy protested and lifted a pair of pants with his foot. Lovett’s, he decided, and shucked them his way. “Not to be a stickler for details, but I was under you.”

“You’re always a stickler,” Lovett said, but absently, as he was hunting for his other sock.

Tommy was pulling his own pants on by the time he saw the tense set of Lovett’s shoulder and the way he was turned away from him.

“Hey, Lovett?” he ventured carefully.

“What?” Lovett threw over his shoulder without really looking at him. Tommy swallowed.

“I, uh- I don’t want you to think that I regret anything.”

Lovett whipped around, hands still on his shirt buttons. “What are you talking about?” he demanded, and Tommy was completely taken aback. He was shirtless and had barely buttoned his pants, and he had no idea where Lovett was coming from.

“This,” Tommy said helplessly and threw his hands out. “You. Us. It was- I- It was good.”

“Good,” Lovett repeated and kept doing up his buttons. “Good, that’s great. Yeah, it was fun, and now we can’t ever talk about it again and I have to sneak out of here and hope the cleaning staff isn’t right around the corner!”

“What- I don’t-” Tommy said, but he had no idea what he was trying to say, and anyway he was broken off by Lovett who said,

“This isn’t even my shirt! Fuck!”

Instead of undoing the buttons, Lovett pulled the shirt over his head and threw it at Tommy, who had to take a step forward and reach to catch it before it fluttered to the floor.

“That’s not what I want,” Tommy said, desperately, clutching the shirt to his chest. Lovett had found his own and Tommy could see that he was buttoning it wrong but didn’t know how to bring it up. “Lovett, I really wish you didn’t have to leave.”

“Yeah, but I do,” Lovett said and shrugged on his rumpled suit jacket. “You knew this was going to happen when you started this. I never should have stayed until morning.”

“When I,” Tommy said, stunned by the new, jagged hole that had appeared in his heart. “I thought you wanted this too.”

Lovett paused, with his hand on the door. “Of course I did,” he said and looked down for a moment. Tommy didn’t dare feel the hope that was dashed anyway, when Lovett met his eyes. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

The problem, Tommy thought, when he sat down on the bedside with the shirt in his hand and the closing of the hotel room door echoing in his ears, was that Tommy never could manage his expectations.

* * *

Lovett barely looked at him for the entire campaign for the primary in Oregon, and Tommy couldn’t help but connect Lovett’s distance to the fact that they lost. And then, of course, they touched down in California. Tommy would never quite know how to feel about California.


	14. 5.

##  July 1966

* * *

“What the hell,” Lovett said quietly, “are you still doing up?”

Tommy blinked because his eyes felt like sandpaper and looked up at Lovett standing in the kitchen doorway. Instinctively, he hunched to keep the papers from anyone else’s view, but Lovett was okay, it was all right.

“This report,” Tommy said, cleared his throat and started again, “This report’s got to get finished. What time is it?”

As he asked, he looked at the clock on the wall beside the fridge and blinked again. It showed twenty past three, and it had to be in the morning because it was dark outside. Tommy blinked again because Lovett had come to stand behind him to peer over his shoulder, and now he shoved at Tommy with his elbow.

“Leave it,” Lovett said, demanding as only he could be. “The world won’t fall around your ears because you don’t finish that report tonight.”

“No,” Tommy agreed and thought about the world. “Not because of this.”

“All right, that’s enough of that,” Lovett said and was pulling at Tommy’s elbow to drag him out of the chair. “Let’s go, what you need is to move around and get out of that head of yours.”

“At this time of night?” Tommy said and looked out the window again, even as he let Lovett pull him to his feet.

“Yeah, at this time of night,” Lovett said and led the way to the foyer. “What, are you telling me you’d be able to catch some sleep?”

“No, you’re right,” Tommy agreed and put on shoes and a coat, because it was still night, even if it was the middle of summer. The distance to his bed upstairs seemed unbridgeable, and the prospect of being alone with his thoughts horrifying.

Their neighborhood was decidedly different at this hour from what Tommy was used to - so quiet and still, the light from the streetlamps oddly bright in the darkness. The breeze was bracing and made Tommy feel so much better instantly that it took him several blocks to think to ask, “Hey, so what were you doing up, Lovett?”

They were in the darkness in between the circles of two streetlights, but Tommy could still make out the grimace Lovett made. He had his hands in his pockets and kept pace with Tommy easily, even though Tommy had a tendency to let his long legs carry him ahead of everyone else.

“If you must know, and I’m not naming names, but my down-the-hall neighbor, who unfortunately shares a very thin wall with me, is entertaining a lady friend and I didn’t particularly want to listen in.”

“Oh, I- oh, jeez, I’m sorry,” Tommy said and grimaced too when the implication sunk in.

“That’s all right, you don’t bring home lady friends,” Lovett said and shot a smile Tommy’s way, illuminated by the reddish glow of the streetlight. “I respect that about you, Tommy, you being considerate like that.”

“Thanks, I think,” Tommy said, and Lovett barked out a laugh. Something about the dark and quiet around them made Tommy go on, despite the flutter of nerves, “You don’t bring lady friends home either.”

“No, I don’t,” Lovett said briskly but without looking at Tommy. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Tommy pressed his lips flat and thought it over for a moment. Then he put his elbow to Lovett’s side, playfully, and said, “And I respect you for it!”

“Well, I never asked for your respect!” Lovett shot back, but it was clear he was kidding. The brightness of his tone made Tommy feel relieved and happy all at once, and they kept on talking as if nothing significant had taken place at all.

They got back home closer to dawn, at the same time as the newspaper boy.

“Chuck it here,” Tommy called as they were walking across the lawn, turning his body toward the street, and the young man on his bike eyed him dubiously but did as he bid and threw the bundled newspaper at him in a neat arc. Tommy reached up and caught it in both hands, and he heard Lovett laugh softly.

“Finally some good out of all that baseball you guys insisted on playing whenever you had a spare moment on the campaign.”

“I was always better at catching than batting,” Tommy said and inadvertently creased the newspaper when his hand twitched as he folded it out. He could never quite balance swinging the bat.

“Tell me, what’s the news of the world?” Lovett said and reached for the door. “Let me impress the rest of the guys at the breakfast table with my knowledge, so this entire escapade won’t have been a waste.”

“There’s been a riot,” Tommy said and stared at the headline in the porchlight. “In Cleveland. Two dead, fifty-some black youths arrested.” The newspaper crumpled further in his hand, and Tommy had to make a deliberate effort to relax his grip on it

“Shit,” Lovett said, all the bluster leached out of his voice, leaving it small and breathless. “That’s- That’s horrifying.”

Tommy lifted his head to look at him. Lovett looked tired, all of a sudden, and he let out a loud exhale. “I don’t suppose we’ll be catching any sleep in these small hours,” he said and quirked his mouth into a humorless smile as he met Tommy’s eyes. “I’ll get the coffee on, how’s that sound?”

In reply, Tommy almost said, _ I think I love you. _

He didn’t, but it did take him a moment to shake the notion loose enough to be able to follow Lovett inside and back to the kitchen, where the unfinished report still waited.  _ You can’t,  _ he thought as he watched Lovett dig out the tin can of coffee from the cupboard, saw his untucked shirt ride up enough to reveal the dimples at the low of his back. He turned his gaze away guiltily. _ You have too much work to do. _ We  _ have so much work to do. _


	15. 14.

##  June, 1968

* * *

“But you,” Tommy said when they parted and Lovett settled back on his feet, leaving him dazed. The wind was cold at his bare neck.  “You walked away.”

“Because I had to,” Lovett said with his hand still in Tommy’s shirt. The balcony rail was digging into Tommy’s back, and he’d dropped the cigarette somewhere but he only had eyes for the line between Lovett’s eyebrows, the dark cast over his features. “You would’ve never forgiven yourself, or me, if anyone found us out and used it to ruin his campaign, and I’m sorry for being selfish enough to want you to not hate me.”

“I could never hate you,” Tommy said, heart beating uncomfortably hard under Lovett’s hand. Lovett laughed, a short, mirthless sound.

“You would have, Tommy, but it doesn’t matter now, does it? But fuck it. Fuck it, what’s the point?” He thumped his closed fist against Tommy’s chest for emphasis.

“You’re allowed to want things,” Tommy said, wanting to believe his own words, and touched Lovett’s cheek with cold fingers. Lovett’s lips stretched into a crooked grin that tugged at something in Tommy that hurt.

“I wanted to see what you tasted like after a smoke, but I think I prefer it when you don’t,” Lovett said, and Tommy laughed, despite himself, and swept a stray curl of Lovett’s hair behind his ear. He hadn’t cut his hair since, well, since before Indiana if Tommy was any judge. 

Lovett blew out a breath, and Tommy could see that his lower lip was trembling. Maybe Lovett had been keeping himself together solely for Tommy’s benefit, because he looked now as if he was coming apart at the seams a little. “I wanted to make you feel better, because maybe, if you feel better, things will be okay.”

“Things will be okay,” Tommy said, more to reassure Lovett than because he actually believed it. “They’re not right now, but- but we’re going to have to be okay.”

“I wasn’t even surprised when I heard he was shot,” Lovett said quietly and looked at his hand on Tommy’s chest. “That’s the worst part. I thought, well, so that’s another one. They were never going to let him live. Only maybe this time some of it is my fault.”

“Hey, hey,” Tommy said and cupped Lovett’s cheek to tilt his head up. “That’s my schtick. You don’t get to blame yourself for things that go wrong.”

That made Lovett laugh, and he looked put out about laughing, which in turn made Tommy laugh. Still laughing, they pulled each other in for a hug, Lovett with his head against Tommy’s shoulder and Tommy pressing his face into Lovett’s hair, and even if he kept laughing he had to blink back tears, and his shirt grew damp where Lovett was pressing his face against it.

* * *

“I keep going through it in my head,” Tommy whispered to Lovett when they’d taken showers and gone to bed, lying face to face in the darkness. “What I could have done differently, if it would’ve mattered. If maybe I can wake up tomorrow and it won’t be true.”

Lovett sighed, the sound loud in the quiet room and Tommy felt his hand close around his wrist.

“Me too, Tommy,” he said. “But I think- we’re still going to have to do the work. It’s going to be more difficult -so much more difficult- without him, but-”

He broke off on another sigh and Tommy felt him edge his body closer and felt awe at the sheer bravery of Lovett being able to seek the solace he needed and that Tommy was more than happy to try to provide.

“Yeah,” Tommy said, thickly, and wound his arm around Lovett. “Yeah, you’re right. But that can wait until morning.”

It was wholly selfish of him, tilting his face downward to find Lovett in a kiss, but Lovett didn’t seem to mind, so Tommy kissed him. There was nothing else they could do but comfort each other, but for now, Tommy thought, that was enough.


	16. Epilogue

#  March, 1969

* * *

“Can you believe every day looks like this? It’s not even summer yet!” Lovett said as Tommy walked into their living room with the kitchen corner. “You think it’s a joke, the way people go on about the weather here, but it never, ever changes. Here I was, thinking New York summers were bad, you know?” 

It was a rare enough occurence for Lovett to be up before Tommy left for work and even more so on a normal Tuesday, so Tommy took a moment to look at Lovett looking out over the light dawning across Los Angeles through their window. He looked sleepy, leaning on the windowsill like he was having trouble staying upright, and for almost a whole year now he hadn’t bothered to keep his hair short and professional -- he made Tommy trim the neck and around his ears sometimes, but the curls on top were wild and tangled. Tommy liked his hair like this, and he padded over to catch Lovett in a hug from behind.

He was wearing a t-shirt that might have been Tommy’s; over the course of the two of them living together their possessions had become increasingly mixed. Tommy pushed his nose to Lovett’s neck, mouth on the collar of the t-shirt, and inhaled.

“Mm,” he said. “I thought you didn’t have work today.”

“I do have work,” Lovett said and shifted so he could put his hand on top of Tommy’s on his stomach. “I just decided to work from home. Doesn’t matter where I write as long as I write. I even put the coffee on already.”

“Look at you, being responsible,” Tommy said teasingly and pushed at Lovett to sway him back and forth, like wrestling a dog. “Can I have some before I leave?”

“No,” Lovett said immediately and turned in Tommy’s arms to grab him. “You can’t leave at all, I’m hiring you as my secretary to do all my writing for me.”

“You’re a much better writer than I,” Tommy said with a laugh and squeezed Lovett’s soft sides before he let go to grab a mug.

“Hey, no, I meant what I said!” Lovett said and trailed after him and made an attempt to grab the mug out of Tommy’s hand, but Tommy kept it out of his reach and leaned against the counter to push him away with his foot. “You can’t have any coffee if you’re leaving.”

“Well, what if I were to stay?”

“I’d be sure to make it worth your while,” Lovett said, changing his tack and weaving past Tommy’s foot to press up against him and wedge his hands under the waistband of his slacks. “Huh? You can call in sick, I know for a fact you never do. I can even make the call for you and tell them my voice is shot to hell from this terrible sickness.”

“My work doesn’t involve that much talking,” Tommy said and set his hand on Lovett’s shoulder and stroked his cheek with his thumb. “I’m sure they’d tell you to come in anyway.”

“You should have a job that involves talking. You have that smooth, deep voice that’s great for public radio,” Lovett said stubbornly and settled against Tommy, leaning his full weight on him so that the counter dug into Tommy’s back. He didn’t mind. Lovett pitched his own voice like a broadcaster’s, nasal and staccato, as he went on, “The Los Angeles radio weather report with Tommy Vietor; _ ‘Today’s sunny, tomorrow’s going to be sunny, and whaddaya know, the day after tomorrow is going to be sunny too!’ _ ”

“I do not sound like that!” Tommy said and tried to poke Lovett in the side, but Lovett just used the opportunity to wrestle the mug from Tommy’s grip.

“The hell you don’t!  _ ‘I’m  _ Toh-mmy, _ from Massachusetts, and I like long walks on the beach, except I never go to the beach because I don’t know how to relax-”  _  Lovett broke off on a squeak as Tommy bent down and circled his hips to hoist him up in the air. “Let go, you’ll break your back!”

“Give me my coffee and I’ll let you down.”

“All right, all right, yes, you can have coffee, just put me down, you animal!” Lovett tapped his shoulder with the mug and Tommy let him down so he could pour the coffee for both of them. “Typical Tommy, resorting to physical violence when words fail you. You know the pen is mightier than the sword, right?”

“Sure,” Tommy said easily and brought the mug to his lips. “I just like to speak softly and carry a big stick, is all.”

“Yeah, I’ll say,” Lovett said with grin and a wink and gave Tommy’s groin an affectionate squeeze where they were both leaning against the counter. Tommy yelped and almost spilled coffee all over his shirt and tie, but managed to push the cup over the sink just in time.

“All right, that does it!” he said and lunged for Lovett, who set his own coffee down before Tommy caught him in a wrestler’s grip. He was laughing and pawing half-heartedly at Tommy’s grip as Tommy manhandled him out of the kitchen and toward the bedroom - Lovett’s, on paper, but shared in reality, past the second bedroom that was nothing more than a very expensive storage space with a typewriter and a dusty bed.

His plan was to deposit Lovett on their bed and cocoon him in so many blankets that he’d stay put long enough for Tommy to get out the door, but Lovett didn’t cooperate. Instead he yanked Tommy down with him, and at this point, Tommy knew exactly how strong Lovett was so he could have put up a better fight, but he didn’t.

“I mean it,” Lovett said, and nose to nose like this with Lovett’s arms around his neck, Tommy could see that he was being serious; the laughter lines swapped out for a frown. “Don’t leave. That stupid job is killing you.”

Tommy had time to see the regret flash in Lovett’s eyes before he pushed back and out of Lovett’s arms - again, Tommy knew Lovett’s strength, so he also knew that Lovett let him go.

“We can barely afford this place as it is,” Tommy said, shifted to sit on the edge of the bed and straightened his tie. “You know I can’t flake out on work.”

“You can find other work,” Lovett insisted and sat up. “Something you care about, not just consulting. What’s consulting mean anyway? I know you don’t think it’s a real job.”

Tommy gave him a look that he hoped conveyed how sick he was of this particular argument. Lovett looked down, seemingly contrite, but Tommy knew he was just regretting his timing.

“I’ll bring home dinner,” Tommy said and pressed a hand to Lovett’s knee to tell him there were no hard feelings. Lovett quirked his lips into a smile to show the same, and Tommy left for work. He passed the rolled up newspaper on their doorstep and thought, _ damn, I didn’t have time to even look at it. _

* * *

When Tommy got home from work he didn’t find the newspaper anywhere, but he did find Lovett by the typewriter in the spare room.

“I brought pizza,” Tommy said, still balancing the lukewarm cardboard in one hand as he peeked into the room. Lovett’s only reply was a loud groan somewhere between exasperation and appreciation.

“Did you also bring an extension of my deadline?” he said but got to his feet all the same. Tommy leaned in to kiss his forehead.

“You don’t need an extension, the only way you’ll work is under the pressure,” Tommy said as he settled back, keeping the cardboard just out of Lovett’s reach.

“Shut up and give me pizza,” Lovett said, pulling petulantly at Tommy’s tie, and Tommy grinned.

They ate the pizza in comfortable silence, a silence of the kind Tommy had been sure he’d never get to experience, with someone he loved and trusted. It was silly, how much he’d come to rely on things like this.

“Hey, I didn’t have the chance to read the paper this morning, do you know where it is?” Tommy said when Lovett was done with his half and on his way out the door, while Tommy was still chewing on his pepperoni.

“I don’t remember where I put it,” Lovett said airily but paused with his hand on the doorframe. “The only interesting thing in it was that NASA launched Apollo 9 to test the moon landing.”

“Oh, wow,” Tommy said and wiped his mouth with a napkin that he then crumpled up in his fist. “So that’s what they’re spending the government’s dime on.”

Lovett turned around, and Tommy loved that too, knowing exactly what to say to push his buttons - just as Lovett knew exactly how to push his.

“Yeah, Tommy,” he said sharply. “That’s what they’re putting money on, the betterment and future of mankind! Don’t tell me you have a problem with that.”

Tommy shrugged, settling in for the argument. “I’m not arguing against the betterment of mankind, but isn’t it more important to invest in, say, the people living here on Earth?

“I can’t believe it,” Lovett said and made a motion like he wanted to reach out and strangle Tommy, which made him grin. “You still sound just like-”

Lovett broke off abruptly and turned away again, leaving his words hanging in the air. Tommy became uneasy at once, rising to his feet and moving as if to scoop Lovett into a hug in a reflexive try to reassure him, but Lovett ducked out and back to what had become their home office.

“Like who?” Tommy said quietly, leaning his elbow on the doorframe to the room without stepping inside. Lovett had taken up station by the typewriter and looked at it with arms crossed like it had offended him.

“You know who,” Lovett said curtly, and Tommy curled his fingers into a fist on the doorframe. He did know, and having Lovett mention him hurt in some unnameable way, even now almost a year later. “Favreau called. He wants us to come work for him.”

“Us? Surely he meant you,” Tommy said mildly. Lovett turned around, arms still crossed.

“No, he actually mentioned you specifically,” he said, pressing his mouth flat for a second before he went on, “He said it was about time you find your own place to live.”

“Oh, come on,” Tommy scoffed and stepped across the threshold and hoped that Lovett would let him pull him into his arms this time. “He knows I’m not interested in settling down with a wife and three children.”

“Aren’t you, though?” Lovett said, and the tone of his voice wasn’t half as worrying as the fact that he did let Tommy pull him into his arms and leaned his head on his chest. “I mean, I see the way you are with kids.”

“Lovett,” Tommy said and had to lower his voice so it wouldn’t break, tightening his grip on him. “Jon. This isn’t a fluke.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” Lovett said, voice muffled by Tommy’s shirt. “Though I suppose you did move across the country and keep a soulless job to be with me.”

Tommy chuckled and pressed a kiss to the top of Lovett’s head.

“Don’t take all the credit,” he said and tried to shake Lovett a little, but Lovett steadfastly didn’t budge. “I have to spend my time on something. Although I might hear what Favs has in mind, because I’d rather spend my time on something worthwhile.”

Lovett shifted in Tommy’s arms to look up at him. His eyes had softened with a smile, and Tommy ached with a quiet adoration when he looked into them.

“Speaking of spending time on something worthwhile,” Lovett said and slid his hand down Tommy’s sides to squeeze his ass. “I never finished counting the freckles on your back last night.”

Tommy laughed and marveled that even after a whole year, Lovett could still make him blush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is by a Roman poet named Ovid, from his work _Metamorphoses_ , and refers to how Sisyphus, entranced by Orpheus’ singing in the underworld, for just a moment stops his eternal punishment of pushing a rock up a hill over and over again to listen.  
> This Newsweek article is a look back on the campaign and it quotes the paragraph of Newman’s memoir that I use as a summary.
> 
> The thing is, RFK had a twenty-nine year-old assistant press secretary named Hugh McDonald who blamed himself for the assassination, and I swear I didn’t know this when I started writing this fic. I absolutely did not model Tommy after him, this is just a weird case of real life mirroring the fiction I made up, and I intend no disrespect to anyone mentioned or referenced in this absolutely 100% fictional work of, arguably, art. (I’ll note that the real speechwriters on the 1968 campaign were not Jon and Jon, but Adam Walinsky and Jeff Greenfield.)
> 
> I asked my mom if she remembered the assassination of RFK and she was like: “Yeah, sure! I remember thinking he was another golden prince struck down.” I was like: “Okay cool thanks” and promptly hung up the phone to cry. This fic isn’t about him, but I’m gonna leave you with a couple of quotes about him from the book “The Last Campaign” by Thurston Clarke in any case.
> 
> “I fell in love with Robert Kennedy, with his goodness. Listen, I _loved_ that man."
>
>> Jim Tolan, attorney and campaign aide in 1968.
> 
>   
> ”I can still see him with his shirt sleeves rolled up, and his hairy muscular forearms. One lid covers more of one eye than the other--a kind of droopy lid--and there is an absolute intensity about him, even when he’s joking. There will _never_ be anyone like him. History won’t allow it, the media won’t allow it, the blogs won’t allow it. You _really_ want to know what Bob Kennedy was? He was fucking beautiful.”
>
>> Associated Press correspondent Joe Mohbat who “spent more time in close physical proximity to him than any reporter that spring” and, after 1968, “lost his taste for journalism and became a lawyer.”
> 
>   
> PS: Lovett’s joke about the river being so dirty you have to rinse it off is shamelessly stolen from the Scrooge McDuck adventure “The Master of the Mississippi” by Don Rosa, who in turn stole it from Mark Twain. They both talked about the Mississippi, obviously, but the Potomac _was_ notoriously polluted in the 60s according to my google search “potomac 1960s”.
> 
> [Here’s a spotify playlist that I made for this fic.](https://open.spotify.com/user/o16d62clhyiqm13upxeh6mg4a/playlist/34YCSHg3w5rFdwWHUmSrgi?si=49rAjQuAR4uPHa3rvF7BZQ) It’s kind of sort of from Lovett’s POV, but mostly it’s just a moodboard.
> 
> Big thanks to [stressbaking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stressbaking/pseuds/stressbaking) for the research tips and enthusiasm, and to [semperama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperama) for cheering me on and being the best betareader ever. Any and all remaining mistakes are, as always, my own.


End file.
